


Steady as the stars in the woods

by thegiggleatafuneral



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bucky Barnes-centric, Consensual Underage Sex, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multiple Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6942610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegiggleatafuneral/pseuds/thegiggleatafuneral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU<br/>Steve and Bucky are reunited after 5 years but the chaotic life of high school and their contrasting personalities drives them further apart. Where Steve is a model student and the school's beloved icon, Bucky is unable to shake off how Russia has changed him and ends up in the underworld of the school</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. homecoming

It was a beautiful, start-of-fall day when Bucky Barnes swooped back into Steve's life like a raging tornado, the same way he left exactly 5 years ago. Steve'd overslept by 15 minutes for the first day of freshman year and was in the midst of dumping his cereal into his mouth while simultaneously feeding the dog and stuffing his bag when the door knocked, frantically - a Morse code, 5 short knocks and 3 long ones, a code he shared with only one person in the world.

Steve felt his heart clench painfully and his stomach drop. Without missing a beat, he ran to the door and opened it with trembling hands and a mix of trepidation and anticipation. It could well be a coincidence, but Steve _knew._ He just knew, without knowing how. So when he saw Bucky (a very different version of the Bucky he last saw 5 years ago, crying from the back of the taxi mouthing bye to Steve a hundred times) standing outside, bag slung over a shoulder and grinning the wolfish grin he remembered from their childhood, he wasn't surprised.

"Steve!" Bucky yelled, and his voice was deeper now. Rougher, but as warm as Steve remembered. He had grown so much, yet Steve was now taller than him, something neither of them had ever thought could happen. Steve barely had time to say "hey" before Bucky launched himself and Steve and crushed him in a Barnes Bear Hug, spilling the bowl of cereal still in Steve's hands.

The 5 years apart had done nothing to dilute Steve's memories of how glorious it felt to be in Bucky's arms, only now, Steve was bigger and Bucky's hands were gripping muscle instead of bones, and Steve felt his heart do a tiny somersault when Bucky's chin came to rest on his shoulder. "Oh my god, Stevie, look at you," Bucky said, words muffled against Steve's shirt. This time there was no mistaking the slight tilt in his voice, a distinctly European edge to his former Brooklyn accent.

Steve's heart ached for the 5 years they spent apart, 5 missing years where he spent every day wondering where Bucky was and what crazy adventures he was up to. Yet he couldn't find his voice to ask Bucky how it had all went, and what he'd done in that span of time. Instead, all his stupid brain could come up with was "Buck, I'm gonna be late for my first day." 

To which Bucky only laughed, shaking in Steve's arms. "Dumb ol' Steve. You're still a nerd after all this time." He pulled back and grinned, and Steve swore Bucky's was as bright as the sun in that moment. It was hard looking at this new Bucky - sharp cheekbones, firm jaw, laugh lines the way Steve remembered, skin paler than he had ever been. Steve's heart ignited in ways Peggy Carter or her younger by 3 years cousin Sharon could never make him feel. "Brooklyn High School of the Nerds and Wannabes. That's where you're headin', right? Well, we're going the same way, pal." Bucky waved a letter with the school's stamp on it, and Steve had never thanked God so fervently in his life. 

Bucky was back. In his school, in his life, in his house. It was as if the past 5 years had never happened, as if Bucky had just come over the day after he left. Everything was so familiar and Steve felt himself float back into Bucky's orbit once again. "You punk. You're gonna bring hell to that unfortunate school." Steve slung his arm around Bucky's shoulders, grabbed his bag and together they made their way out into the beautifully glowing morning. 


	2. daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's from Bucky's POV  
> In which not everything is as great as it seems but Bucky's always a champion at keeping it together. 
> 
> (Just a filler before the boys get to school and all the fun starts)

20 minutes with Steve and Bucky's heart could finally beat in a somewhat regular rhythm. He was still pretty amazed Steve hadn't felt the heartbreak and fear hammering away in his chest while he had hugged Steve earlier, and that was a blessing. 

No emotional baggage. Russia hadn't ruined him. Pierce hadn't ruined him. If he kept telling himself these, he would eventually believe it. And so would Steve, it seems.

Bucky's pressed up in the window seat on a rackety old bus that goes to the high school they're both heading to now, and he should feel excited about seeing all their old friends and newer ones but he can't quite seem to care about anything except the bruise lurking somewhere on his chest and Steve's knee pressed against his. Steve fills up so much space now, and Bucky welcomes it gratefully. 

He listened as Steve filled in the gaps of the missing 5 years, tried not to stare at the sunlight reflecting in Steve's eyes.

About 10 things Bucky learned from The Steve Rogers Radio Show Live on Route B6:

1\. Natasha, Clint, Bruce, Loki and Tony goddamn Stark back from elementary school were all going to their high school. 

2\. So were a bunch of people Bucky hadn't bothered to remember. He briefly registered some of the names: Peter Parker, Scott Lang, Darcy Lewis. "Most of our elementary school, really," Steve explained, "excluding the ones heading to Queens or Manhattan, which is like, 30%?" 

3\. Apparently there was a local teenage band called The Guardians of the Galaxy, comprising a motley crew of 10th graders. (Steve had snorted while he said this and Bucky nearly peed himself laughing)

4\. Steve was going for football tryouts.

5\. Steve had reached first base with Sharon Carter and second with Peggy Carter. A terrible conflict ensued when both girls found out.

6\. Boxing was an after-school activity and the fighters in the team were pretty notorious. This perked Bucky's interest though he didn't show it - maybe he could put what he learnt in Russia to practice.

7\. The last 5 years were terrible.

8\. Steve really missed Bucky (he said it 12 times. Bucky counted.)

9\. Steve seemed to have had a good time. 

Bucky refused to let the hole in his heart open up now and kept up his playful banter, maximising the volume of his laughter.

10\. Steve's Ma had terminal cancer. 

 

Bucky hadn't realised he'd fallen silent for nearly a minute until Steve looked away. "Yeah. I shouldn't have told you, though. Didn't wanna ruin the mood." There's a look in Steve's eyes that seem to mirror Bucky's own when he's alone, and it's not a look Bucky ever wants to see on Steve. 

"Hey. Don't. You can tell me anything, anytime." Bucky swallows. He isn't sure what to say. What can a 14 year old say in such a situation?  _I hope she gets better soon_ or  _that sucks_ don't exactly make anything better. Bucky shrugs aside any doubts and holds Steve's hand - fingers intertwined, like they did when they were kids and nobody called kids fags. 

He doesn't stop to look at Steve's reaction, doesn't think he could handle a rejection. He might have once known Steve from the inside out, but things could have changed. Must have. "Kay. My turn. Let me tell you about Russia." 

He leaves out all the moments that had drowned him in their bitterness. He talks about the physical cold, the language barrier, the huge penthouse, the dogs. He doesn't talk about the vodka, or Pierce, or the street fights. By the time they get off the bus another 10 minutes later, the shadow of his Ma's illness has all but left Steve, and Bucky's managed to make his time in Russia sound so outrageously fun he almost believed it. 

He thinks Steve may have doubts - he's way too perceptive and sharp not to. But neither of them question anything. Bucky pulls his hand out first, feels his heart shift heavily and forces himself to leap off the bus with the most cheery smile he could ever conjure.

"Come on, come on," he half runs, half drags Steve toward the gates of their new school and tries his best to look like he's really excited for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this story could potentially get a hell lot angstier and sadder)


	3. rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky makes a friend... or two.

_Steve_

 

"Is Bucky with us in Science?" Clint asks. It's become a ritual - at the start of every lesson, he'll poke Steve in the neck with his pen and ask if Bucky's in their class or not. Steve's frustration is growing by the hour: he misses Bucky already, he's starting to hear girls whispering Bucky's name and he has every subject with Clint bloody Barton. 

Clint's a bro, but he was never a good classmate. He spent most of elementary school shooting rubber bands at teachers' butts (he never misses) and pulling Nat's hair. He's spent the first day of high school staring at teachers' butts - "Maria Hill is so hot I would shoot more than rubber bands at her" - and Nat's chest, when he thinks she isn't looking. 

Steve has been trying to not think about Bucky and Clint isn't helping at all. 

"I don't know, man," Steve grumbles. He internally slaps himself for the hundredth time for not checking Bucky's timetable before they parted ways for their different classes. The last time he saw Bucky, his best friend was smiling like the sun with his arm around Loki Laufeyson's skinny shoulders. Huh. Loki - the famously antisocial, straight As kid. He hadn't expected Bucky or Loki to remember each other, but the way they'd greeted each other was as if they hadn't lost contact over the years. It made Steve pissed and jealous, and pissed that he was jealous. 

"You know what's cool? Our teacher is Howard Stark. Tony's dad." Clint says. He doesn't sound like he cares, and neither does Steve. The room starts filling up, and Steve's head is starting to buzz. The sheer amount of new faces he sees in every lesson is getting too much to handle. "I hear Bucky!" Clint says suddenly, his extraordinary hearing aids proving itself again. 

The buzz leaves Steve's head when he sees Bucky coming in through the door. He's laughing, holding hands with Nat, fingers all intertwined. Steve feels a sudden, unexpected pang - Bucky's so quick to win everyone back, in less than half a day. Steve feels dispensable. He ignores the ache in his heart but Bucky spots him. "Stevie!" He shouts, and he sounds so happy to see Steve that it sets Steve off-kilter again. "I met the damn Guardians of the Galaxy! They're actually really rad. Well, just Quill. The rest are goofs." 

He notices Clint then and barrels towards him. "Clint clint clint my man, how are you?" Bucky launches himself onto Clint and tackles him with a hug. This time, Steve can clearly hear the girls behind him whispering about how hot Bucky is. He tries not to let it get to him, focuses on the rather epic Bucky-Clint reunion in front of him. Nat joins him as Bucky and Clint hug, shout how-have-you-beens laden with expletives and laughs.

"It's so good to have Bucky back," she muses, quiet. "It's like he never left at all." 

Steve nods. Laughs along with them when Bucky plonks himself on Clint's lap and refuses to get off, not even when Howard Stark comes into the classroom. Then Tony enters the classroom and all hell breaks loose. "What the hell, Dad?" Tony demands, and the whole class erupts with laughter. Including Howard. "Sit the hell down, son," he says, and proceeds with an astounding scientific demonstration that no one, including Tony, listens to. 

It's the fourth lesson of the day, and Steve has never felt the air alive like it is when Bucky is in the same room.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_Bucky_

 

"Y'know, Steve said the fighters were kinda notorious." 

Bucky's climbing the stairs to the rather secluded, infamously exclusive boxing room with Natasha. Neither of them had particularly been afraid of people so they decided going for boxing tryouts was worth a shot. Bucky thinks one of the reasons why he gets along so well with Natasha is that she's almost the female version of him - dives headfirst into situations normal people wouldn't put themselves in. 

"Yeah, some of our seniors warned us about them." Natasha grins, shit-eating, "Not that it matters, right? I think there's a good chance of getting in." Bucky loves that about her - her self confidence, never arrogant or narcissistic, but the kind that's rightful and inspires the people around her. Bucky's always been inspired by her. Had even learned some ballet in Russia because she'd learnt it since she was 5, and was always trying to make him dance with her back in elementary. 

The coincidence that they'd both picked up fighting in the years they spent in different continents doesn't surprise Bucky. Or Natasha. While Steve has always been the sun in his life and Bucky's source of lightwarmthhappinesshopefaitheverything, Natasha is his soul mate and his non-identical twin. They'd always known what each other were thinking, back in the days of classroom finger painting and duck farm field trips. Seeing her again earlier today felt strangely like he'd found a part of his soul and put it back into him. 

That was how natural it felt to be with her. 

"I haven't actually seen you fight yet," Bucky jabs, playfully. "Don't embarrass yourself if there's auditions, kay? Or I'm gonna pretend I don't know you." He gets a playful elbow to the ribs, hitting a spot he never knew could hurt so much and swallows a groan. 

"Wait for it, Barnes. I'm gonna be one of those MMA fighters one day." 

They reach the room and knock tentatively like grade 3 kids trying to access a forbidden classroom. The door is opened in about 2 seconds by a handsome-ish brown-haired guy in gym shorts and nothing else. 

"Freshmen?" he asks, gruff. "Come on in." 

 _Not as bad as everyone's making it out to be, the doorman's pretty friendly as it is_ , Bucky and Natasha think in unison. They're led into what looks like a rather legitimate arena with a boxing ring and all. It turns out they're not the only freshies: there's about 5 other kids, all muscly and bulky. The guy who brought them in sizes Bucky and Natasha up. They're both slender and probably look like they'll get their asses whacked. Bucky smiles at the guy patiently.  _Come at me_ , he thinks, trying to look as suggestive as he can. 

"Hey kids." Another topless senior with short-cropped hair calls out from near the stage. "Okay, I'm Wade Wilson. I'm in charge of recruiting you kids so that our team doesn't die out. Blah blah blah. I know you heard shit about us, real bad shit. Lemme tell you now, those stuff are probably true. Or like, toned-down versions of our cruelty. Naw, I'm just kidding. But we are pretty cruel. But we're also fun. You'll love it. So let's test out your skills first, get everyone bloody and sweaty, and then we'll sit in a circle and introduce our names. Okay? Okay. Biggest kid goes first. Smallest goes last. You stand in the ring until one of us comes out to beat your ass." He says it all in one breath, manages to smile, flex his arm threateningly, and wink at Bucky. 

Bucky likes this team already. So does Natasha, he feels. 

Smallest goes last means they take a seat near the ring without being asked to. Fights are boring to watch when you're not in them, so Bucky puts his head in Natasha's lap and ignores the grunts and heaves coming from the ring. 

If Wade never makes it a professional fighter or graduates from high school, he would make a damn excellent commentator. Bucky listens to him rattle off about how cool the newcomers are, points out good moves and analyzes mistakes, praises the freshmen, thanks the wrestlers. Then, "Hey sexy, it's your turn," and Natasha gives him another elbow, to his shoulder blade this time. 

Bucky's blood pulses and his senses wake up almost all at once. He moves quickly into the arena, brushes past Wade and winks back at him. There's a movement from the seats near the stage, and the guy who led them in earlier is making his way up to Bucky. Looks like he got the hint from earlier, Bucky thinks. The guy is really good looking, Bucky thinks, then Steve's head pops into his memories and whites out his vision for a second. No, there's good looking guys everywhere. Steve's beautiful. Steve's a relic, and Bucky's gonna see him once tryouts are over. 

It puts his senses in good drive, makes it easier to smile at his approaching opponent. He isn't scared, of course. He stopped being scared since he was 13 and surrounded by the whole group of boys in Russia. Bleeding has always been easy after getting it knocked out of him by ten pairs of fists and boots, into the snow, mere metres away from his house. 

"Folks, keep it up for Erik Lehnsherr, the face of Brooklyn! Careful there sexy, his eyes will knock you out before his fists do." Wade banters playfully. Bucky doesn't move, doesn't drop his smile. Erik is right in front of him, and he's fast, so damn fast when his fist swings out, full force. But Bucky's faster. He's dodged at the same time the strike comes at him, and in one split second he sees snow and blood, feels his four broken ribs and sprained ankle and the tears on his face are frozen, and then he comes to and grabs Erik's non-striking hand. 

Time always passes slow for Bucky in the ring. It stretches out before him as he twists Erik's arm. He can feel Natasha's awe and pride, can sense dozens of eyes in the audience, can almost predict Wade's gasp and "bravo!". He's got Erik thrown off momentum and one knee hitting Erik's head on. He chooses to block out all his senses except instinct, sidesteps a half-hearted kick from Erik as he goes down, and then he's seating on Erik's chest with one hand on the throat for the kill. 

There's a lot of noise which he chooses to block out, because Natasha's applause is drowning his head and Erik's eyes are really quite something. 

"Hey," Bucky says, feeling the wounded pride oozing from Erik even as his face remains neutral. Bucky's always been perceptive. "You needn't have gone so easy on me just 'cos I'm not built like a truck." He says it loud enough for the people in the audience to hear. Doesn't know why he's downplaying his win, but you should never let anyone know your full potential, right? 

He gets off, holds out a hand and is pleasantly surprised when Erik accepts it. Wade's still rambling away, and Bucky feels drained suddenly, even though the fight was all but 30 seconds. He sits with Erik for Natasha's audition. She slays it, of course. Looks as graceful fighting as she does dancing. 

And then, later, they do dumb name introductions which neither he nor Natasha cares about. 

He runs off to find Steve as soon as he can. Waits for an hour and a half but football tryouts are something else altogether and Steve's still doing frogleaps around the field with the rest of the freshmen when Bucky leaves, because he doesn't really want to get beaten by Pierce for missing curfew.

He gets through the evening surprisingly well. Sneaking out at 12am is easier than he would ever expect, and the road to Steve's house in the dark is more familiar than he expects. Of course, he walked it once the day before. 

Steve's half awake when Bucky scales the low wall and hoists Steve's window up, like he did all the time when they were 8 or 9 or 10. Steve's warm and he's making Bucky's heart swell with an overload of unnameable emotions when Bucky crawls into Steve's bed, ignoring the fact that they're both 15 now and their combined weight is making the bed creak. He doesn't care that boys in high school don't sleep together, in the purest sense of the word. 

Steve lets Bucky under his covers, lets Bucky press his face into his shoulder blade and sleep there through the night.

For all the soul mate bond he shares with Natasha, he thinks he might be willing to lose a thousand soul mates for one Steve Rogers.

 


	4. benign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets caught deeper in the tangled, messy web of high school.  
> Everyone's sunny, but even Bucky is not the only one who's having a hard time.

He's still in Steve's bed, pleasantly warm, half-awake and half-asleep, delaying the moment he has to get up and wake Steve too. He can see the colour of the sky from the open window: the startling shade of blue between the indigo of the midnight and the cornflower of the autumn day. 

He feels the exact moment when Steve jolts awakes, just as the coughing starts. It comes from the next room - the walls in Steve's house were never very soundproof - and it sounds like someone is dying. Someone  **is** dying, Bucky reminds himself, and it feels like a kick in the heart.

From the next room, Sarah Rogers hacks up choking breaths, and Bucky imagines he can almost hear the sound of the tiny fibers in her throat tearing. There's a crash from the next room, the coughing worsens and Steve untangles himself and moves out of the room at a pace that's way too fast for someone who just woke up.

"Ma, are you okay?" Steve sounds desperate, slightly muffled by the wall but Bucky can hear the panic and tears in his voice. Bucky shuts his eyes against the traitorous beauty of the sky and follows Steve into Sarah's room. (The room where they had spent countless childhood hours playing, reading, talking, so much that Bucky can't remember the number of times Sarah Rogers had came home from work at the hospital to find Bucky and Steve sprawled on her bed with crayons or books or toy cars, and she always, always, wakes them up with croissants or cookies)

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They're late for school by 10 minutes and end up walking straight into the discipline master, Mr Fury, and receiving the honour of having one of the 5 famous Furious Talks for the 5 sins of Brooklyn High (latecoming, PDA/sex, fighting/bullying, homework, breaking or vandalising school property) right in the middle of the hallway. It's embarrassing, even for Bucky, especially when he sees some of the seniors walk past and smirk.

Bucky's heart aches when he sees the blank look in Steve's eyes, even as Steve tries to look respectful and stands straight, puts his hands by his side and all. Those hands had just been splattered with his mother's blood just half an hour ago. Those hands had frantically dialed for a taxi and carried Sarah Rogers into it, straight to the hospital. 

Steve must have been dying to follow, but Sarah had insisted that he go to school. "I'm fine, honey. I'll see you at home later, okay? Maybe bake some cookies, the ones you like." The last line had been a whisper. Steve hadn't let her see the tears that filled his eyes. Had smiled and said "Okay, Ma, see you later. Put extra chocolate chips please." Bucky doesn't think Sarah caught the crack in Steve's last word, but he sure as hell did and it broke his heart for the second time that day. He hopes that faith and love would be enough to get Sarah through this scare. To prolong her life at least, because it doesn't seem like Steve is ready to let her go anytime soon.

How much disaster can happen in one morning? 

Thankfully, Fury dismisses them with some stern remark that sets off a few snickers from the last few students walking past.

"Steve", Bucky tries to catch his eye, but Steve forces a smile and turns away before Bucky can get to him. "See you in science Buck. Have a great day." He's walking away, fast but not fast enough for Bucky to be unable to catch up, yet his footsteps are heavy and sound like they are pleading with Bucky to leave him alone.

So Bucky doesn't follow, even though his gut instinct screams at him. He walks down the hallways for Literature, feeling dread creep in at the prospect of sitting through lessons while Steve's Ma is physically dying and his best friend is dying too, emotionally. At least he can spend time with Loki in class. He's halfway there when an arm wraps around his shoulder and Peter Quill's smiling face pops into his vision.

"Buckaroo! Nice to see ya early in the mornin'. Haven't been on the 10th grade side of the building for so long, but y'know what - today is prank day and I'm stink-bombing the math class. Are you headed there?" 

"No but I wish I was! Damn," Bucky pulls out one of the smiles from his bag of facial expressions and hope it's the right one. 

Quill grins like a maniac. "Oh, you will get some of it, I promise. By the way, hey, I got big news for you man. You met Lensherr yesterday, right?"

"Yeah, at tryouts. I had a short fight with him for some audition crap. What's up?" Bucky feels his stomach coil. He doesn't want to make enemies so early in the year. It's only the 2nd day of school! And he thought America was where shit couldn't go wrong. 

"Uh huh. He says your skills are neat. I gotta ask you something, though. Are you gay?" 

The change in topic comes so quickly it stops Bucky in his tracks. He hopes the colour didn't fade too fast from his face, or that his eyes haven't widened by too much. He sincerely prays that Quill can't hear the suddenly terrified and accelerating heartbeat in his chest. 

Bucky doesn't know if he's gay, but he hasn't loved anyone, in the romantic sense, but Steve. And he did hook up with the Maximoff fella 2 years ago. He's sure he isn't straight. He's not sure if it's okay to tell Quill - he doesn't really want to earn a rep as a faggot so early in his school life, because what happened in Russia taught him that such a rep could only cause his life to go downhill.

"What the fuck?" Bucky manages. He sounds doubtful, even to himself.

Quill looks at him, and it's a strangely understanding and accepting, even kind and knowing expression that he wears. It's so odd that a 12th grade prankster and lead singer of a fusion rock-rap band who's about to shit bomb a 10th grade class is capable of such an expression. Against his better judgment, Bucky nods, and gets a big fat grin from Quill.

"Figured that. The best looking boys always are. Like Lensherr." Bucky feels his eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, so I asked you this because he's my really good friend. One of my top 5, apart from my band mates. He said that after what yesterday, he's making it his mission to fuck you, by the end of the year. Fuck, like in a sexual way, not the bash-you-up way." 

Well. Things could be worse. Bucky swallows, and chases away the ten thousand images of Steve that immediately come to his head. "Wow." He doesn't know what to say. He does think Erik is really hot. And from past experience, having someone around for benefits does help numb some of the horrors at home and also gives him a reason to stay out of the house. He knows he has Steve, but Bucky has always felt like a dumb dog chasing its own tail when it comes to Steve.

He's been suffocatingly in love with Steve since he even remembered having feelings. But he knows that all he'll ever be to Steve is a brother. He has the two Carter girls, after all. Even when he was abroad, Loki had updated him on how Steve and Peggy won the couple of the year in middle school. And when Steve founds out all the bullshit that happened in Russia, he may not even see Bucky as a brother anymore. 

Before he regrets it, Bucky pulls Quill's phone out of his hand and types in his number. "Tell him I'm not gonna make it easy. If he wants, he gotta chase." Bucky winks at Quill (probably nailed the art of summoning facial expressions that don't match what he's feeling). 

"Fuck! This is splendid. Thanks, Buckaroo. Erik's been suffering from the eternal blue balls since his last boyfriend ditched him for some junior. I almost wanted to get him to visit a prostitute." Quill's eyes dance in the light. "Okay, see ya! Gotta set off some stink bombs. And you, you're late as a fuck. You should pretend like you care and run to your class."

Bucky slaps Quill's back and heads to class. The disaster of the 2nd day of school worsens when he can't find Loki in class. He settles down beside Tony Stark instead. Contrary to popular belief, the two don't actually hate each other. Neither does Tony hate Steve. They'd all been friends back in elementary school, and even as a kid Bucky had learned that Tony didn't have the best family situation and snide remarks, sarcasm and insults were his usual displays of friendship.

"Hey fuck boy," Tony greets. He's grown a bit of facial hair in a really funky shape, like he's preparing his look for his future when he's no doubt gonna be famous as hell. "Where's Loki?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow, but smiles internally for the first time that day. Tony's got a not-so-subtle thing for Loki - it started after Bucky left, or so Loki said, and Loki had always found it fun to keep Tony hanging on a thread.

"Uh. Goat boy, I don't know. I'll text him." Goat boy was Bucky's nickname for Loki since the year he started wearing that horned headpiece and green cape for Halloween because he thinks he was named after some Norse demigod.

By the time Bucky pulls out his phone, he already has 2 missed calls and 5 texts. The calls are from Loki, and so are 3 of the messages.

 **4.07 am** : Fuck Odin just came back drunk and smashed my clay artwork

 **4.08 am** : Hes starting again. The 'useless Loki' talk. I think he might just kill me

 **6.31 am** : I can't go to school. He gave me some bruises i can't hide. Will be at our spot at the park. Same one. Its still there. Please come later.

Bucky's heart drops. He can't believe how this day is turning out. His expression probably gave something away, because Tony's looking at him and his wide brown eyes are serious and full of worry. "Did something happen?"

He has no idea how much Tony knows, so he goes for a vague response. "Family issues. I'm meeting him later in the noon, will update ya."

He's grateful that Tony doesn't probe, or ask to come along. Out of everyone, Tony best understands Loki's relationship with his father. Sometimes Bucky feels lucky that his real father probably isn't as sadistic as theirs. He wouldn't know, because his father died a long time ago. Beside him, Tony's got his phone out, probably texting Loki too.

Bucky types in "will come right when this shitshow ends. hang in there".

The class starts, and his brain shuts down.


	5. furnace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock Rumlow is a seasoned badass who's never been in love before, but maybe a certain blue-eyed brunette can steal his heart

_Rumlow_

 

At no point in his sixteen years of life did Brock Rumlow ever enjoy lessons. He did decently and didn't kick up trouble most of the time. He spent most classes with his head on the table or buried in his elbow, sleeping. 

Today both his fists were wrapped up in layers of bandages, having nearly broken his knuckles during a particularly vicious boxing tournament with some shady underground gang. To his left, Jack Rollins looked nothing like the fearsome boxer he was in the ring, with drool running from his mouth to his calculus paper and his hair flopping over his reading glasses. To his right, Erik Lensherr was on his phone as usual. 

"Rum, are you going for training later?" Erik's eyes don't leave his phone, and his fingers move rapidly. As fast as Rumlow thinks he can swing, in the gym.

"Yeah." Rumlow's not a guy of many words. He has a good bunch of friends, forged from the bloody intensity of fistfights. Over the past 2 grades in high school, he built a good rep as someone you don't mess with. He's not a bully by a far mile - he can't give a fuck to waste so much breath on puny freshmen. 

Most people have a grudging respect for him. Boys nod at him. Girls have long given up trying to get into his pants. Now that they're in the 11th grade, there are enough stories about asexual Brock Rumlow who rejected even the girls widely considered to be hot stuff.

Rumlow did get boners, but girls were too much commitment and he found most a bore after they got through the sex and moved on to the dates. Rollins always says he's screwed in the head, and maybe that's true.

"Hope it's 1 on 1 today. I want to spar the new guy."

"Which?" Rumlow asks, although he doesn't remember most of them. He does have a vague impression of one of the better fighters, the one with brown hair and a slightly off accent.  _"My name's James Barnes, but call me Bucky."_ For some reason, he remembers the guy's voice and even what he said, crystal clear. Huh. Memories are strange sometimes, how they capture random bits and pieces so vividly yet the rest just slides into some wasteland. 

He wishes he knew how the brain selects what to remember. If only classes actually taught something useful.

"Bucky. The one who knocked me to the ground." When Rumlow turns his head, Erik's actually smiling wistfully. It looks to him like the kind of smile you don't even realise you're smiling. 

"You got a torch for him already?" 2 years with Erik Lensherr has gay-proofed Rumlow. It's not that he would care, though. He grew up with a gay brother and a lesbian sister. His best friend Rollins is in love with inanimate objects. So having a gay friend around is about as natural as breathing. Erik's numerous crushes, which change with the season, are the most casual topic to discuss whether they're in math or at lunch or waiting for training to start.

Erik shrugs. "Don't know yet. Have to get to know a person better for that." He gives Rumlow a sharp look. Erik disagrees with Rumlow's 'fuck first, date later' ideology just because he's a hopeless romantic but it isn't like his relationships or affections last longer than 3 months. Granted, Rumlow rarely lasts 3 days. 

Now isn't the time to ponder his lack of attachment or desire to have attachments. Rumlow ends the conversation with silence and falls back into his usual brooding silence. He thinks of pounding the punching bag until he paints it with blood. Thinks of the sweet, sweet feeling that comes with connecting his fists with someone else's face.

When the bell rings, Rumlow, Rollins and Erik are the first to bolt the hell out of there. 

Training starts late at 5pm and for the past 2 years Rumlow has always spent the hours before training in the same, typical routine: lunch with the guys, then a nap or homework, and then a run.

Today's different. Rumlow decides to skip the first two for a run because his head feels buzzed and for some stupid and inexplicable reason he can't quite seem to shake the image of Bucky Barnes sitting on Erik's chest, seconds from crushing his throat, out of his mind.

Why the fuck did Erik bring up Bucky Barnes' name? Rumlow is frustrated, and so he runs 12 laps around the track and finally collapses, soaked to the bone in sweat, on the brick red spongey track and plasters himself there, blood pounding in his ears.

He's doing geometry under the shitty lighting of the boxing gym and sharing a joint with Rollins who's in the disgusting process of peeling off dead skin when the door opens and the freshman who can't quite seem to get out of his head enters, along with that redheaded girl who was pretty decent in the ring, if he remembered correctly. He looks away like he can't quite be bothered. There are sounds from the training mats, where the other new freshmen and some of the grade 10s are at work with the punching bags or practicing with each other.

Older and more established members of the team like Rumlow and his crew pretty much do whatever the hell they want. Wade's their captain, and he lets them get away with anything since they win most of the medals and trophies for the team. Even at the start of his good ol' freshman days, Rumlow had quickly risen the ranks as the best fighter in the team by a long shot, so from age 14 he'd gotten away with drinking, smoking and fucking girls in the gym toilets. By now, his wildness had died down and he'd left the crazy shit for the grade 10s to do. Old men like him just wanted to smoke and do homework.

(Boxing had a damn amazing benefit of letting him study anywhere and anytime without being called a nerd, at least not openly)

"Rum," calls Wade, approaching in his ridiculous neon green boxing shorts. He has a fresh, swelling bruise on his shoulder from playing baseball with Rumlow's class during gym in the morning. "You wanna spar with hotstuff? Bucky Barnes? I don't know man, I think kid needs a reality check or he's gonna go thinking he's some big shot in his team 'cos Lensherr can't do shit about it and I don't want this new kid to knock out our seasoned members one by one. It ain't fair. I would train with him, but I wanta keep my face pretty for clubbing tonight. It's either you or Rollins, man."

Rollins puffs a cloud of smoke lazily. "Nah. Plan on lifting some weights and practicing my kicks. Rumlow's the best anyway, let him kick some sense to the kid's head."

Life is always unfair to freshmen. In every single after-school sport. Rumlow knows this, he's been through it. Getting whipped by the best seniors is a rite of passage every kid who joins boxing goes through. So he chucks his math aside and goes up to the kid. Bucky. Whatever.

Bucky's eyes are like blue fire in the dim, burnt-out lighting of the gym and he smiles when he seems Rumlow as if he's greeting a friend. Rumlow keeps a straight expression. Friendliness, sunshine and rainbows aren't the kind of shit that's associated with a place like this. Someone's got to keep it real. "Get in the ring with me. I'm not going through basics with you. We're going straight to it. Gloves or no gloves?" He asks, brisk.

Irritatingly, the smile doesn't leave Bucky Barnes' face. He looks way too comfortable in his own skin, but his smile doesn't meet his eyes. It's something Rumlow can pick up instantly based on years of experience in dealing with troubled openly gay siblings who were too often bullied or ostracized at school. "None." The kid's eyes are piercing, and nearly luminous when he moves forward enough to a position that makes the dirty orange light from the ceiling lamps strike his eyes just so. He looks zero percent scared, which nearly pisses Rumlow off. Did Wade not bother to mention that Rumlow's the best fighter and had won at least 5 individual medals? Huh.

Rumlow leads the way to the ring, cracks all ten knuckles on his hand. Bucky Barnes follows, and stands there watching him with an unreadable expression. After a long pause he stops to push back his hair - and then lunges into the fight.

He's like a fucking wolf, Rumlow thinks, a whole air of chill and calmness, almost eerie in the way his blue eyes have gone dead calm once he starts throwing punches. The kid's got raw skills. He would be lethal to almost the entire team and could probably take out 2 or 3 at a time. But Rumlow is Rumlow, and he catches the first flying fist and twists it within about 15 seconds into the fight. His senses are in overdrive and he can't tear his eyes off the darting, swinging kid in front of him.

He corners the kid forward until he's got him crowded against the ropes and kicks the kid so hard in the shin that he loses his footing and balance. To anyone but Rumlow, the fact that this boy literally had no change in expression as he crumbles would be terrifying. The returning punch is so fast he almost, almost doesn't dodge away fast enough, but his years of experience in both clean, brightly lit arenas and dirty, sweat soaked rings with dried blood on the ropes in underground dens with peeling paint and mouldy walls can handle this kid.

He grabs Bucky Barnes by the shoulder, fingers pressing amazingly into a scar that must have been brutally painful at some time and flips him. By the time Rumlow has Barnes to the ground and smashed his fist inches away from the kid's head, he's raining a monsoon of sweat and his heart is so loud he can hear it. He can hear Barnes' heart, can see the sweat at the edges of that thick brown hair. Bucky Barnes is smiling, even though he got trashed hard by the best fighter on the team. There's not a trace of fear in his eyes, even at this juncture, and Rumlow realises belatedly that one of his punches got the kid in the shoulder and it's tearing.

"Fuck that was hot!" Wade yells, his timing annoyingly accurate. Rumlow flips Wade and takes his fist off the mat. "That wasn't an easy fight." Rumlow concedes, though it's not his job or his nature to dish out encouragements to bright-eyed newbies.

Bucky Barnes doesn't acknowledge that. He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand where his knuckles are beginning to bleed. He looks Rumlow straight in the eye and asks, "Do you wanna go drinking tonight?", and it's so bizarre and straightforward that Rumlow is caught off guard.

He's fucked boys before. He grew up with gay siblings. He suddenly realises what all of Barnes' actions has been about - the non-stop smiling, the semi-intense, challenging stare, the way he pushed back his hair. Fuck, Rumlow isn't a romantic but if a nice hot piece of ass or pussy presents itself he isn't gonna say no. "Sure," he rasps, and walks out of the ring leaving the kid lying on his back in the ring.

Erik punches him, half angry and half playing, on his way to the toilet. He shrugs, plays it cool, but jerks off like a madman once he's alone in the cubicle. Fuck, he never even realised when he'd gotten hard. The rest of training suddenly seems like a long stretch of time.

 

It's close to 8pm when the room is finally almost empty. Erik had unwillingly left earlier on at around 7, grumbling about Polish relatives and 'fucking retarded family dinners'. It's a fairly good thing, since Rumlow figures that Erik would have invited himself to go along with him and Bucky Barnes. He doesn't even know why he's playing it so cool, trying so hard to avert suspicion by waiting to be the last few to leave.

He finally gets up and tosses his last cigarette in the bin when Barnes kisses his redheaded shadow on the cheek and she leaves. He makes it to the side door at the same time as Barnes does, and they leave the sweaty room together in silence.

 

It's close to 10pm when Barnes is shit-headed drunk and  _still_ downing vodka from the bottle like he's trying to get over the grief of someone's death. They're at some quiet, dark spot behind a thick cluster of trees at the neighbourhood park, a perfect spot for Friday fucks and drunken teenagers. It's a spot he used to go to when he was in his hell-wrecking days in grade 9 and 10. 

No surprise the kid brought him there, though he was plenty surprised earlier when the kid pulled a fake ID out of his pocket and bought the alcohol without even blinking. Though, it hadn't been necessary, since Rumlow knew the cashier and had been buying booze from the ripe old age of 12 or 13.

"Think you had enough." Rumlow says, taking the bottle out of the kid's hand. When their hands brush together, he feels a jolt of something going through his veins. Barnes looks at him with slightly dilated, soul-sucking blue eyes that are suddenly so large and captivating in the dark of the night.

"I haven't tried - yet," Barnes fumbles. He looks frustrated and half-heartedly tries to snatch his bottle back from Rumlow, very much like how Rumlow's sister's kitten tries to grab at things. It's endearing.

"Tried what?" Rumlow puts the nearly empty bottle of vodka beside his own empty cans of beer. 

"You," Barnes says, and he moves surprisingly fast for a drunkard and plants himself in Rumlow's lap. He's fever-hot to the touch and his hair, dripping with sweat from the tips just 3 or 4 hours ago is now falling in a mess all over his face. When he kisses Rumlow messily, the kid's hair is tickling Rumlow's face and it's mighty soft. Rumlow doesn't hesitate, tangles a hand into that hair to leverage himself and slides the other to the kid's ass. 

He's drunk, but sober enough to stop, which he doesn't bother to. He's had plenty of good fucks, and although some confusing unknown deep inner feeling tells him this kid isn't gonna get out of his mind so easily, he doesn't stop until he's got the kid's pants and underwear down to his knees and presses him down. He doesn't care that this might not be a simple one-time fuck, although that's all he's known for so long. 

Right now, the alcohol in his blood and the soft sighs of Bucky Barnes under him is enough to get him going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my universe, Brock Rumlow isn't 100% bad and he may seem like a douche without feelings for now but trust me, he will have some soon enough :)


	6. freight car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always one step forward, three steps back for Bucky.  
> The universe continues showering him with misery, but it's times like this that prove who really loves him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: physical abuse (!!!)  
> Translations:  
> начальник: chief/boss/superior  
> дерьмо: shit (as in the cuss word)

_Bucky_

 

He has two feet on the snow - and what a sight it is today, albedo on full mode, so white it almost hurts to look - and he's surrounded by a pack of rugged, coat-clad delinquents. 

This time he gets to enjoy the taste of the snow on his lips when he licks them in anticipation of the fight, because he isn't alone or unarmed. Beside him is Vasily Karpov, his godfather and the man who'd picked his bleeding ass off the snow after the second time he got bashed to the ground by drunk youths all sharp at the edges. Karpov had taught him how to fight to win - had given Bucky some sort of identity in this lonely, alien town that wasn't his home. He'd given him a disjointed family of boys like him who had homes but didn't spend most of their time there. 

And with him and the boys by his side today, this fight was going to be as easy as street fights get. Maybe no one would die this time.

Except, there's a rumble and the snow under his feet trembles violently. He tries to hold his ground but it's giving way and he falls, hands scraping at the vibrating, recoiling snow frantically. He doesn't feel the cold, but his hand shoves the snow so far off that it comes to rest on grey tar, and he thinks of Brooklyn, and below his hand the ground is coming to life, shaking ceaselessly like it's about to rupture.

"начальник?" Bucky asks. He gets no answer, and the shaking stops everywhere except under his hand, and he swears the air smells like Brooklyn nights all of a sudden. 

 

He opens his eyes to a windshield facing a patch of night sky, his phone vibrating like a thunderstorm under his hand. The car window is open beside him and the air that's flowing in is all Brooklyn, the cold of Russia forgotten in the panic that suddenly seizes him. 

There's no Karpov to save him here. He checks his phone - 12 missed calls from Pierce, 4 unopened messages. It's 2.31 am and Bucky only has time to open the thankfully unlocked side door until he's puking so violently into the concrete ground (no ankle deep layer of snow, any blood isn't gonna be buried with the next fresh round of snowfall). His head is throbbing so hard and the panic rises up so fiercely in his gut that it feels for one terrifying second like he might just vomit out his organs and die here.

Then it stops, and Bucky has tears dripping down his face into the black tarmac, like raindrops racing down a windowsill.

"дерьмо, дерьмо, дерьмо," he whispers, too far gone to even care what language he's speaking. Of course he'd forgotten about Pierce's reminder to come home early. Of course his adopted father had found out that he'd snuck out at night the day before. And of course he's still awake right now and thirsty for blood. Pierce is like a shark - once the flame of anger has been lit, he won't stop until he's blazed the world down with his rage. 

This isn't the first time. Bucky's always been the pathetic moth, first to be burned until Pierce has exhausted his fuel. 12 missed calls - it's a first, and it's a damn good sign that tonight's beating is going to set new records. His stomach lurches again and he's gagging out of the door with nothing left to throw up but air when a hand rubs his back, rough but gentle at the same time, in a way Bucky never knew was possible. 

"Kid, you alright?" It's Brock Rumlow, and Bucky wants to fall face-first into his own bile and never resurface. He can't believe he'd just thrown his entire image into the drain like this. Puking like a first-time drinker, crying and going unintelligible in another language. Beside the deadliest fighter on the boxing team and one of the hottest guys Bucky had ever laid eyes on - in fact, one of the only few people Bucky admired so crazily. 

When the retching stops, Brock takes his hand off and Bucky slumps back and hopes Brock doesn't see his tear stained face. He's so far gone he can't find it in him to put up an act anymore. 

"I - I need to get home now. I'm sorry, i'm sorry, fuck. Fuck." He's fumbling again, close to hysterics, and he doesn't look back at Brock Rumlow as he pulls himself out of the car and stumbles his way onto the road. The quiet corner they had parked last night to drink isn't far from his house, and he still knows the shortcuts around these streets like the veins at the back of his hand. He doesn't stop his half-run, half-walk as he scrambles down the road and away from the car, doesn't want to see the judgment on Brock's face when he realises the boy he fucked last night is a freakshow. 

He falls, once, twice, stops counting after. Brock doesn't come after him, but that doesn't hollow his heart out. All of it's frozen in fear at what Pierce is going to do to him - the phone's vibrating again. 14 missed calls now. Bucky starts crying in earnest, now that there's no one here to judge him but trees and faceless houses.

He misses Russia all of a sudden like he never thought he would. He misses the gravel of Karpov's voice and the pride in the man's eyes when Bucky's fighting skills started picking up. More than anything, he misses the feeling of being in power and in charge when he finally found the strength to hold himself up in a fight. 

All of that means shit now, when he's staring at the polished arch of the front door of this house he's supposed to call home. The lights are on, he can see them, and his breathing is far too quick and far too shallow as he walks in, disheveled, heart hammering painfully in his chest. 

Pierce is at the table in the main room, at the usual place he does his work. Even seated, he's tall - no, huge - and the mere shadow he casts on the ground is intimidating. He doesn't look up even as Bucky enters, although he must know. The maid, standing quietly at a corner, turns and hastily leaves when she sees Bucky. 

The funny thing about the servants: they're never present when Pierce is handling Bucky. Or after. 

Bucky never wondered if Pierce had instructed them to leave. But the fear in the maid's eyes is enough proof that they know what's going on, oh yes they do. And the fear tonight wasn't for herself - it was for him.

"Sir." Bucky's stomach recoils at the shame of even having to say this word. It's more than necessary right now, though. Pierce has always gotten pleasure from feeling like he was in power, and he fed on words like "sir" as if they were ambrosia.

Pierce finally looks up, and the look in his eyes is almost feral, as if a Katrina-sized hurricane was brewing in them. "You're late," he booms, and rises to full height. "And didn't answer your phone." His voice drops to a frightening low, and Bucky realises to sudden horror that the back of his pants are wet - Brock's cum, seeping out of him, a stark reminder of how fast the night had changed. Just a few hours ago, he was crushed in the arms of the insanely hot boy who'd captured his attention from the moment Bucky saw him walking over. And now, here he was, about to get fucked in an entirely different sense.

"Look at you," Pierce sneers. "You filthy creature. Disgracing the name of this household." He crowds Bucky backward with advancing steps, making him flinch, and grabs him by his shirt that's crumpled as hell and stained with splashes of alcohol. "I took you in when your goddamned parents had forsaken you and you repay my kindness by acting like a child who can't behave, no matter which country you're in." 

Pierce is still moving forward like a wild dog on a hunt, forcing Bucky to retreat until his back is to the wall. There's no escape this time, and he prays for it to be over as soon as possible. Looking into Pierce's eyes isn't an option; he might actually piss himself in fright. When Pierce backhands him out of nowhere so hard that the side of his face is flung against the wall, it's almost a relief. 

The adrenaline kicks in and the ball of nervous fear loosens. He's like a butterfly that's been stripped of its wings - unable to fly away. No, he's like a fighter without limbs. He can't escape this in any way, can only curl up and take it and wait for it to be over. There's a sound as Pierce rips his belt off, and Bucky's terror returns tenfold. He had only been hit by the belt on one occasion a year ago, and it'd left him crying on the floor for almost two hours after. Even Karpov had turned pale when he saw the marks.

There's a hand in his hair and he's being dragged viciously to the empty side of the table. His scalp is burning as Pierce shoves him down, and he's still scrambling for to grab onto something when the belt comes down so hard on his back that his whole body jerks nearly 90 degrees in agony and shock. The scream is torn out of him but he can't hear anything except for the rushing of air as he crumbles, only to be dragged upright again. 

"Love bites?" Pierce bellows, and his thumb drags across a spot on the back of Bucky's neck ruthlessly, bringing tears to his eyes immediately. He faintly remembers Brock kissing him as his hips moved behind him, and maybe the imprint of Brock's thumb is still on his hips. Pierce slams Bucky face-first onto the table, nearly knocking him unconscious and his hearing goes all fuzzy. He can't exactly feel his limbs. Molten: that's what he is now, and Pierce grabs him by the back of his hair and bangs his forehead onto the table again. 

Bucky's vision white-outs for a moment, and the air doesn't quite seem to want to go to his lungs.

"I warned you, you little ingrate. You're a slut, just like your mother was. Going around and giving your body for free to all those worthless junks out there." The last word is punctuated by a glob of spit that hits the bull's eye - the hickey on the back of his neck. Bucky gasps and spasms, tries to croak out "please", but it's buried by the sound of his shirt being ripped off.

For all the posh, educated and wealthy appearances that Pierce presents to the world, he's a beast at home, with unnatural strength and animalistic violence. He strips Bucky's unresisting body with ease, like he's been doing it for years (oh, but he has), and goes all out with the whip, finally, now that he has the entire blank canvas of Bucky's body to work with. 

It's like being underwater, at the bottom of a swimming pool - overwhelming pressure on his head, everything sounding like it's coming through a tunnel. The tears in his eyes make the world watery and unfocused, the edges of everything smeared and dripping. Like the blood that's weeping from the fresh welts on his back now. He doesn't count the whooshing sounds of the belt flying through the air, nor the sharp cracks when the belt lashes out at him and splits his skin. 

The entire process seems to go on and on for hours. Bucky doesn't know, he's losing his edge on everything. He doesn't realise when, but he starts mumbling Steve's name, just for a tiny measure of comfort. There are a million things Bucky doesn't understand, and one of them is how Steve always creeps into his head in moments like this, when he's delirious and lost and about to lose his grip on reality.

As if Steve is the last thing left in his life, if he lost even himself. As if Steve is the  _only_ thing left worth caring about, when he's naked and flopped over the pristine white table, unable to even cry out anymore. Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve. Bucky struggles for his mind to catch and hold onto a wobbly memory of Steve smiling at him under the sun, his hair as golden as wheat. 

The storm rages on around him and he whispers "steve" into the tablecloth like one of those loonies that live on the street and crawl around rubbish bins uttering the same word over and over to themselves.

 

He doesn't realise when it stops and Pierce leaves, but he comes to a long time later, still naked. He's on the floor and all the lights have finally been switched off save for one table lamp in the corner. It's dim enough to fool himself that the dark splashes of liquid on the floor aren't blood. 

His breathing has finally stilled, and his lips have long stopped moving. There are tears dried up in his eyelashes. He doesn't rub them off. 

James Buchanan Barnes, who'd turned numerous heads and made dozens of friends within the first 2 days of school; who'd charmed hundreds with his walk, his smile, his hair; who'd attracted the attention of even the hottest upper grade boys - he was nothing now, really. 

He crawls pathetically, ignores the wailing pain from the map of wounds on his back and pulls his jeans towards him. His hand is surprisingly steady as he pulls out his phone. 3.58 am. 

He resists the urge to bawl and scrolls through his contacts for Steve. He's selfish. He should let Steve sleep, but he's never needed his best friend so badly until now.

 

_Steve_

 

The midnight air is cold on his weary limbs.  _Ma must be feeling cold,_ Steve thinks, and gets up to close the window. The cheap floor tiles are freezing under his feet. He tucks the blanket even more snugly around his Ma and listens carefully for her thin breathing for several seconds. It's all okay. 

He sits back down in the armchair, the weight on his heart still not lifting. The tenseness hasn't left his muscles the entire day, and even now every muscle in his body feels as tight as a pulled cord. He'd come home earlier and thanked God so hard to find his Ma in the kitchen, weak but alive. The air had been warm and thick with the smell of cookies baking, and Steve had nearly broken down on the spot. 

Steve knows his Ma is living on borrowed time. She could leave him anytime, any second. And he hopes so hard it's in her sleep, so she won't feel pain. This is why he's never leaving her side when she's asleep. Accepting that her time is almost up was the hardest thing in the world to do. Being there when she leaves would kill him, but not doing so isn't even an option to him. 

So here he is. He'd planned to sleep, but just couldn't. Too many thoughts weighed on his mind,  too many worries. The grief clings to him like sweat that takes hours to dry after a run on a humid day. Even the cool night air threatens to suffocate, and he feels like a skinny pre-puberty kid when he looks at his Ma - like he can't do anything, can't change shit. Can't save anyone. Can't even breathe without a hitch.

The day has taken a toll on him, and his eyes are drifting close when his phone rings. It's the familiar tune of 'Under the Sea' from The Little Mermaid, his favourite Disney musical which Bucky had teased him endlessly about when they were kids.  _Bucky._ Steve's heart aches, remembering the look on Bucky's face when he walked away in the morning. He hadn't meant to, but his head was on the brink of a nuclear meltdown and he didn't want to hurt Bucky in case all his emotions came exploding out. 

He hurriedly picks up the call before it wakes his Ma (he checks, and her thin chest is still moving ever so slightly, it's all safe) and walks out of the room quietly. "Hello?" he whispers, realising he forgot to check the caller ID when he'd been too busy making sure Ma was alright. 

There's no sound from the other end, and Steve's eyebrows knit. Seriously, a prank call at this hour? He pulls his phone back to check the number, only to see that it's Bucky. Steve frowns even harder. It's the most ungodly hour for even Bucky to be up. 

He puts the phone back to his ear. "Hey Buck? What's up?" he says, louder this time. When he strains his ears, he thinks he can hear Bucky's soft breathing. 

Then finally, "Steve." It's Bucky alright, but his tone makes alarm bells go off in Steve's head at once. He's known James Buchanan Barnes for close to 10 years, and even though he hadn't seen or heard Bucky for the past 5 years, he can read into Bucky's signals even better than Bucky himself does. He's never heard Bucky sound so defeated, ever. Not even when he'd told Steve that he was moving to Russia and as hard as he'd begged, Pierce was forcing him to go. 

"Hey. Hey, yeah, it's me. Are you at home?" He refuses to let himself panic, even as the familiar tension draws back into his muscles almost at once, like he can transition from half-asleep Steve to dead-alert Steve at the flip of a switch. 

Bucky sniffles, coughs, and makes a sound that's somewhere between a sob and a groan. "Steve, I... Please come over. But don't make a sound, please. Please. I'll give you the address." 

Steve's already pulling on a jacket and jeans over his boxers - checks again, yes Ma is safe and sleeping - and he's got his feet in his shoes and one hand locking the door by the time Bucky's telling him where his house is. He mentally berates himself for not having asked in the past 2 days, just because Bucky had went to find him first. 

Even though he's had less than an hour of actual sleep the whole day, Steve doesn't think he's ever run quite so fast before, not even for football tryouts. He nearly steps on a cat running across his path, ignores the distant barking of Brooklyn's strays. His feet come to a stop only when he's finally reached the address Bucky had given him. It's at the end of the street which the richer families live in, like Tony Stark and his family, and the Carters. 

He's never seen this house before: white, massive and solid, with an arching doorway and glass windows, the insides shielded by curtains. It doesn't look like somewhere Bucky would like to stay in. Steve moves quietly, stealthily, and finds the back porch. 

As instructed, he scales the brick wall behind and plants himself on a ledge. There's an open window with a tiny bit of paint peeling off the wall beside it, as Bucky had said there would be. Steve knocks the Morse code as quietly as he can on the edge of the window and hoists himself in, feet dangling dangerously as he uses his arms to pull his weight in. Thank God for having strong arms. 

When he's finally in the room - and yes, this looks more like a place that belongs to the Bucky he knows: posters, books, a beanbag - it's dark, only one beside lamp lighting the surroundings. And then he sees Bucky, and his heart stops.

Bucky's sprawled out on the floor, right next to the door, looking for all the world like he crawled his way up here. He's stark naked, but even Steve who's had a boner for Bucky since his dick started getting hard can't feel remotely turned on, because Bucky is literally tearing open. 

There's a network of intersecting welts on his back, long, thick and brutal rips of the skin along his back, his arms, his butt, even his thighs. They're quite fresh too, most of the wounds still welling up with blood, and so much of the blood has overspilled the valleys of the whip marks that run zig zag along Bucky that most of his flesh is red. The shock has left him cold, and the rage that swells up is so intense he struggles to push it down. 

Making his way to his friend, he touches Bucky's hair as a greeting, unsure what to say. His tongue feels lost and his heart is aching so hard, he didn't even know he could feel pain like this. Bucky moves his head when he senses Steve, and tilts to look up at him. Steve's heart wilts, because the pair of eyes he loves most in the world looks dead and lost, and the dim golden light highlights the tracks of dried up tears on Bucky's face. Steve fights back his own.

"Hey, Steve," Bucky says. "Thanks for comin'." He smiles, but it looks terrible and doesn't match his eyes. 

"Oh god, Bucky, no," Steve's hands automatically come to rest on the sides of Bucky's face, and he strokes gently as if he can wipe away all the tears and this - whatever it is. "What happened?" 

"Pierce," Bucky says. "Don't ask anymore, I beg you. Don't say anything to him, it's only gonna get worse." There's a trace of fear that comes to life in Bucky's eyes like a sudden jolt of lightning, and it really burns Steve's heart. Bucky was never afraid of anything, most of the time. And it felt like a cold slap that Pierce had done this to Bucky, Pierce, who was Bucky's adopted father and was supposed to be protecting his son. 

"Yeah, okay I won't. I'm gonna get you cleaned and patched up." With a new duty, Steve finds himself less at a loss and can think clearer. It's not a secret that Pierce has always been the worst stepfather alive. There had been numerous slaps even when Bucky was a kid, but he never knew it had gotten this serious. Bucky hadn't said a single word about it, hadn't even shown whether he'd suffered at all in the past 5 years. Steve hadn't questioned, and now he regrets it. 

The regrets slam like a freight car but he can't sink in now, not when Bucky is bleeding out in front of him and clearly needs him to be strong.

 

It's a cold midnight, and the Autumn sun will rise the next morning as usual but Steve realises now that nothing was as good as it seemed and tonight's events would change everything about their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS i'll be overseas for the next week or more so this will be the last update till then. do leave comments for me to come home to x
> 
> additionally, i apologise for any language errors as i operate without a beta and i don't usually check through before i post


	7. seventeen part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 17 days after the events of the last chapter

The first day: 

Bucky would burn the world down if it meant having more days like this. He was sick as hell of lying on his stomach and every movement hurt, even the tiny ones, but it was worth it for getting to spend time with Steve like this, away from the rest of the world.

It's been too long, and he finally gets Steve all to himself. An unguarded Steve, as comfortable as he'll ever be in his own skin. Bucky knows Steve has never really felt like he fit in with people and always preferred being alone. He's lucky to have seen the Steve the rest of the world doesn't get to see - the one who drools in his sleep, who can spend hours sketching without even taking a piss break, who sings the Bee Gees when the only audience is the dust motes in the air (and Bucky). Being here feels safer and more comfortable than he's ever felt in any other place in his life.

He drifts in and out of sleep, and each time he wakes Steve is there, sitting on the rackety old chair by the window and working hard at the sketchbook on his lap.

One time Bucky woke, Steve was doing push-ups on the floor. "17, 18, 19 -" He looks up at Bucky and stops, dropping to the floor ungracefully, making Bucky smile.

Steve scrambles up and is beside Bucky on the bed at a speed he could never reach when he was still a scrawny kid, not yet blessed by the miracles of puberty. "Heya, Buck," Steve says, only the slightest bit breathless. "Sleep good?"

"Yeah." Bucky's voice is still thick with sleep. "Your room's still my favourite place in the world. Smells like Steve." He doesn't care that he sounds stupid. The lazy sunlight drifting through the pale yellow curtains, floral patterns long faded, makes him feel like he's perpetually in the state between being asleep and waking.

Steve only laughs, and Bucky's heart aches for the fact that he can't capture that sound and how it makes him feel into a jar so he could pull it out and listen to it the next time Pierce beats him up again. "What does Steve smell like?" Steve asks, and his smile is so golden and warm, engulfing Bucky like a tsunami of the best kind.

"Home," Bucky says. "Can I wake up later?" He closes his eyes but he thinks he can still see Steve's nod. "Mm hmm," says Steve, still a solid weight beside Bucky on the bed that doesn't shift long after Bucky has fallen back asleep.

Somewhere later in the afternoon, when the sunlight is degrees brighter and making the dust motes in the air dance, Steve's ma comes in with chicken noodle soup and her best cookies. "Rise and shine, Bucky!" she says, chirpy despite the cancer. Her sharply protruding cheekbones or sunken eyes does little to dampen the radiance in her smile, and her eyes are every bit as kind and loving as Bucky remembers.

"Steve says he'll send you back home when you're feeling better, but you're welcome to stay as long as you like. And gracious, do eat more. Steve's putting on the pounds all the time but I don't remember our Bucky Barnes being so un-chubby." She pinches Bucky's cheeks gently, like he imagines a mother would.

"Thanks, ma'am," Bucky says, voice scratchy from not speaking for the past few hours. "I did miss your cooking so much. Russia got nothin' on you." 

There's a lot of smiles going around, and if atmospheres were to be described in colour, Bucky would call this one the purest shade of gold. He's already freezing this moment right here into a snapshot in his memory, eyes swallowing in the details so that he won't forget exactly what it feels like to be here right now. Steve, of course, could do a much better job at remembering things and drawing such a vivid sketch of whatever incident or moment that it'll take Bucky's breath away, but he wants something for himself this time.

He isn't stupid, he knows that happiness is always expiring.

Good things don't last, in Bucky's world.

 

The fourth day:

He's back in school, walking slowly like a cripple. The story he tells everyone is how he fell off his bicycle and got a ton of scrapes, but he doesn't show anyone except Nat and Clint how he's bandaged like a mummy underneath his clothes.

There's one person he can't keep the truth from, and little green-eyed Loki has him in a corner and looks like he's ready to kill someone, just minutes before Literature.

"You didn't answer my messages, and it's been 3 days. You didn't show up for school yesterday. Do you know how fucking worried I've been?" Loki barely manages to keep his words to a furious whisper. He has his slim hands balled into fists inside his coat pockets.

"I'm sorry, goat boy. I should have called you, but it was really bad. It was so hard to even stay conscious after that." Bucky comes undone easily, under Loki's intense gaze that always carries too much pain for someone so young. "Can't even remember the last time I just zoned out of reality like that. Lyin' on the damn floor. Not even knowing if I was breathing or not, for god knows how long."

Loki blinks, and his anger dies down by notches. There's an understanding in his eyes that Bucky can never see in anyone but Loki. "I know. That was me, the day I texted you before school. I wish you could have let me be there for you. It's like, you're always there when I need you, but I'm a useless friend when you're the one in trouble." He's reproaching himself again, falling into his guilt and insecurities and self hatred like he always does.

"No, Loki, no. You're not useless. Don't ever say that," Bucky pulls Loki into a big hug, screwing the fact that it kind of hurts and the bell is going to ring any second AND there are loads of people walking to their classes. He's already counting the number of stares they're getting, but he figures its worth it if he can convince Loki of how much he means to him.

"Okay, okay. Get off me, everyone's looking," Loki hisses, embarrassed, but Bucky only smiles and on impulse, pulls Loki off the ground and spins him around. People are definitely staring now, and a bunch of girls have even stopped in their tracks. He gets a kick in the shin from a mortified Loki and a very jealous glare from an approaching Tony Stark.

"You know you love it, Loki-Dokey," Bucky teases, and sticks out his tongue at Tony. Yes, it's definitely getting easier to act like nothing's wrong at all.

 He spends his break later in the afternoon with Nat, Clint and Tony. Steve's nowhere to be seen, but Clint said he saw Steve heading to the gym along with some of the football guys. Bucky tries hard not to feel jealous, tries to feel happy for Steve that he's hanging out with new friends and probably having fun.

Of course, Nat doesn't miss a beat, hooking her arm around Bucky's in a gesture of comfort and leaning her head on his shoulder. Clint buys them all food and launches straight into a funny story about how he'd torn his shorts in gym, in front of everyone, and Tony laughs obnoxiously while alternating between using his expensive new tablet and eating some sort of exotic food from a lunchbox.

Clint ends up eating half of everyone's food and tosses the crushed-up wrappers and drink cans with frightening accuracy into the trash can five metres away. It's like elementary school all over again, except without Steve around.

 

The seventh day: 

Bucky's been avoiding the boxing team like they're a plague, since he can't quite explain why he's in no state to fight and it's hard to excuse himself when he looks physically okay, since his wounds are all concealed under his clothes.

It's a good thing he has Erik's number. When he finally checked his phone the day before he went back to school, there were 5 unseen messages from Erik asking how he was and if he wanted to hang out. He had sent Erik a "sorry, got into a shitty accident while cycling and sprained my wrist and ankle. won't be at boxing practice for this week too, help me tell wade. by the way, i'm sorry i haven't been replying. i don't really check my phone much. xx". The two kisses were for fun, but Erik had replied him just about 5 minutes later and he'd added two kisses too.

Fucked up as it was, Bucky still thinks it's fun flirting around. In Russia, he had spent most of his time fighting boys. Maybe here, he could do less fighting and more having fun.

He doesn't know whether texting Erik will make real life conversations awkward. He hasn't seen Erik, or anyone from the boxing team (those he remembers, which is less than half since he spends more time talking to Nat and gazing at Brock Rumlow and Erik) yet. Which is good, since Bucky hasn't an idea what to do if he sees any of them around, especially Brock because the last time he saw him... Bucky doesn't ever want to think about that time.

He's always careful in blocking out all thoughts of Brock because they bring back memories of a warm hand soothing him and a seismically vibrating phone in the car, a shaky walk home, overwhelming panic and a dimly lit road.

Of course, his luck runs out eventually. He's looking for his friends in the cafeteria on Friday after a brain-numbing Calculus lesson when a familiar voice shouts "Buckaroo!" and Peter Quill has a friendly arm around his shoulders.

"Hey, Quill, what's up?" Bucky grins brightly and turns to face his friend, nearly dropping the book in his hand when he sees Erik behind Quill. And worse, Brock beside Erik. His grin is frozen in place and he can't stop the wave of panic rising in his gut.

"Ya having a break right now, buddy?" Quill asks. Bucky tries to focus on the longboard in Quill's arm. "Yeah, an hour. You goin' skating?" soundnormalpleasesoundnormalpleasedontfreakout, he thinks.

It must be working, because Quill is still smiling and he doesn't seem to sense anything wrong. "Uh huh, honey. You wanna join us? There's this part of the senior block where hardly anyone goes. These two fellas, they always go there to smoke." He gestures to Erik and Brock, and Bucky lets his eyes flit briefly to Erik only, shooting him a side smile.

"Nah, I don't smoke." Bucky's sure it's rude to reject, especially if it's a senior asking you to hang out. Quill only pouts. "C'mon, Buck. I could teach you to skate. And I'm sure Erik wants to hang out." He winks.

"I could teach you to smoke," Erik offers. "It's more fun than skating." It's the first time Bucky's really talking to him, which is weird as they'd been texting every night about all sorts of random topics, from movies to music to sports. "Even Ponyboy smoked. And you said you dig him." Erik smiles with all his teeth, and it's endearing (and so un-Steve).

Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Kay then. I'll let you make me a bad boy," he says playfully. He pointedly doesn't look at Brock even though he's being rude as hell since the guy did nothing wrong and the last interaction he had with Bucky was when he was trying to help him through a panic attack. In a dark car, on a dark street, yellow street lights cloudy in the dark.

He suddenly remembers with vivid clarity the taste of vomit in his mouth and the way Brock's car was warm and smelled like cigarettes. It makes him feel sick.

Thank goodness for Quill, who drapes his arm back around Bucky's shoulders and leads him past the canteen into a part of the school he's never been in before. "I'm supposed to be writing a new song for The Guardians. We have a performance on Sunday at some babe's birthday party. Apparently she's gonna be 17 so Gamora wants me to write a song about being 17 but man, you wouldn't believe how hard it is.  _Seventeen, years in the sun._ Um, seventeen, we're all having fun?" Quill laughs so hard he snorts. 

Bucky smiles along, easier this time, and at least it's easier to breathe now too. Quill has a way with people, and Bucky barely even knows the guy. 

 

The eighth day: 

Bucky would burn the world down just to spend time with Steve. But Steve doesn't seem to have time for him these days - the past week in school, he hardly ever saw Steve around. There were the fleeting moments of catching Steve's eyes across the cafeteria, or seeing his blond hair from somewhere in a packed hallway. Bucky was finally getting used to how huge Steve was now, like his body finally matched the size of his soul, and he was so blindingly perfect to Bucky, as he'd always been. 

But Bucky definitely isn't the only one who thinks so. He never gets a moment with his friend alone in school, and Steve hardly ever joins their usual group of friends. He's always with the football guys now, and the sharp eyed black guy, Wilson or something, was always by his side. Bucky swallowed the jealousy as easily as he downed vodka shots or threw punches, with a twinge of pain and a burn that never quite went away. 

Life is cruel though, has always been cruel to Bucky. These days, Steve seems to be all anyone can talk about. 

"Heard the football coach is considering Steve Rogers for quarterback next season." 

"Sharon's one lucky bitch to have gotten into Rogers' pants so fast. Who would've expected him to become so hot?" 

"Mr Stark is so biased towards Rogers." 

Bucky refuses to get jealous. It's still so early in the school year, and though it's mean and selfish of him, he hopes all the attention over Steve will die out soon enough. It makes him feel dirty to feel so possessive over Steve, especially since he's messing around with other guys. But the thought of other people loving his Steve, the Steve he knows inside and out, makes him feel like stabbing himself.

5 days without proper interaction with Steve hurts nearly as much as the 5 years out in the cold alone, especially when Steve's radiant presence always seems to be dangling at the edge of his periphery like a distant star. Saturday morning has him out of the bed and leaping from his bedroom window before 7am, and his heart feels out of shape in his chest as he jogs quickly towards Steve's house. 

The sky is unusually dark for the hour, and already there's thunder rumbling from a distance, but Bucky has a big smile on his face when he deftly scales trees, wall, window pane and clambers through Steve's window, breathless and sweaty. He isn't surprised to see Steve awake already - for some strange reason, Steve has always woken before Bucky - but the sight of him shirtless and wet from the shower takes Bucky's breath away momentarily. 

This is the first time he's seeing Steve's new body proper, and it takes all his effort not to stare. "Hey buddy," he says, and it's so easy to smile for Steve, just like how it's easier to sleep in this room than anywhere else in the world. 

"Buck!" Steve looks taken aback, but his smile is blinding though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "What's up?" He's stuffing clothes into his duffel bag. 

"Haven't seen you all week, and we didn't get to hang out much after school either. I thought we could go do something today." He tries to sound as casual as possible, sprawls himself out on Steve's bed like he belongs there. Beside him on the bed, Steve's phone lights up with a call. Sam.

Bucky's sharp enough to catch how Steve's adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, and then it really clicks into place for him that this isn't turning out the way he wanted it to. 

He lets out a low whistle, though it sounds more like a deflating balloon to him, and tries a smile that hopefully looks good natured. "Is this a bad time?" 

Steve scratches the side of his ear, a nervous habit that has endured his transition years. His not-quite smile is still on his face when he answers. "Actually, I'm supposed to go out with the football team today. Team bonding, lunch and games at Sam's house, and some training." His smile fades completely because of course he registers Bucky's crestfallen expression. "I'm sorry, Buck, I really am. I wish I could spent more time with you too, you know that." He sits beside Bucky on the bed, puts a huge warm arm around Bucky's shoulders in what feels like the most friendly way possible. 

It makes Bucky want to curl up and die. He wishes Steve would say that he would ditch his friends for Bucky, or to arrange another time to hang out, but it seems an apology is all he's getting. And while Bucky craves Steve's touch like nothing else in this world, Steve makes everything so platonic. Like Bucky's just another dude that he spends some of his time with, like he doesn't realise how he's Bucky's entire world. 

All of a sudden, Bucky feels like he's back in Pietro Maximoff's room in that little Russian town, staring at his retreating silhouette after their last night together. This feeling could have a name, for it just keeps coming back. 

Still, Bucky doesn't let his shoulders slump too much. "Its fine, Steve, really. I've got a million friends beside you anyways." He puts on the typical Bucky appearance like it's his oldest, most worn set of clothes. Shrugs nonchalantly, winks at Steve, glances at the window like he's considering who to hang out with as if he really has a list. "Have fun today then." It hurts to hug Steve but he still does, as briefly as he can, and he tears himself away, shoving Steve's arms away before they can really find their way around him. 

"Bye, Buck." Steve sounds like a little boy suddenly, and Bucky doesn't want to look back because he thinks he can imagine the exact look in Steve's eyes right now. 

So he clambers out of the window and walks out into the light drizzle with his head down. Of course, it starts raining as he walks home. It's only halfway on his way back that he realises he forgot to knock the Morse code on his way in. 


	8. seventeen part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes days are just stolen from your life.  
> Or, how the next nine days passed without Bucky Barnes' realisation - or consent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as Peggy Carter said - "It's been so long." 
> 
> warning: dark.  
> depressing.
> 
> *edited some parts

The eighth day, the long day: 

 

Stupid. That's how Bucky feels, in a way he hasn't felt in so long, as the little drizzle morphs into a real storm as quickly as his mood had deflated. The rain thunders down from the sky, lovingly. The cold is more welcoming than he remembers, and it brings a strange, sad hope into his bones. 

He takes a different route, one that he almost gets lost in because the landscape has changed in the past 5 years. This one takes twice the amount of time, and the strange, painfully bitter feeling in his heart pushes him along, almost like he can feel Karpov's strong hands shoving him into the warm house and out of the bleeding cold. 

He thinks Steve might follow him. The old Steve would, for sure, but Bucky suddenly feels like he's lost his best friend in all that new muscle and absurd height. Steve's become a man, and Bucky should be feeling happy for him. He chases away the image of a skinny, rain soaked Steve with clothes plastered to his rail-thin frame, tripping over puddles. 

Instead, he focuses on the houses, takes in the details and all the homely, American beauty of the houses that look warm and safe to him, every single one of them. Even his own house would look cosy and comforting, but he knows all too well now, how every house hides its secrets. (Even the crumbling and beautiful Rogers' house with its blooming rose garden hides a dying woman) 

He passes the Odinson house, which hasn't changed one bit. It's even more out of place than his - Pierce's - house, towering with gold framed windows and rows of columns like stone forests. Old Mr Heimdall's black Ford is still there, with hardly a new scratch. Bucky shudders away Loki's stories of how the security guard locked him in the car on several occasions away. He can't deal with anyone else's pain right now, not when the cold scratch Steve made on his heart is threatening to rip open any moment. 

The world lights up with a supermassive bolt of lightning and a deafening thunderclap that forces Bucky's heart to skip a beat. For a few painfully nostalgic moments, the whole world is washed over, a fuzzy dream-like filter coating everything in blinding white and he can  _almost_ smell the pine in the air and feel the snow crunching under his boots.

A car honks loudly beside him, and before he can even jump Erik is out of the driver side and he's being pushed into the shotgun seat. 

Bucky shakes the water out of his eyes, unapologetic in messing up Erik's car for the moment. He's too shocked to react and just the slightest bit enraged at being broken out of his reverie. 

"What're you doing in the rain, you crazy kid? You're gonna fall sick like that," Erik fusses, turning off the air-conditioning and stuffing a jacket into Bucky's lap. Only then does Bucky realise how hard he's shivering. He looks down at his trembling hands, at Erik's navy blue bomber jacket, at the beat-up old leather seat. Then finally, he looks at Erik's handsome side profile, the grim, worried furrow in his eyebrows and the set of his jaw. 

"I'm used to the cold," Bucky's fake-happy voice sounds horrible to his own ears. "I just got back from Russia not too long ago, remember?" He shoves Erik's non-driving hand playfully, and Erik flinches a little at how cold Bucky's hand probably is. "Thank you though. Feels good to be warm again." 

He snuggles up into the jacket that smells like cigarette and watches the rain racing down the windscreen. 

"Not an excuse to stand in the middle of a storm like that, buddy. You're so insane." But there's no hint of an insult in Erik's tone, just admiration and affection that even Bucky can't miss. "You headed somewhere? I can take you. I'm just on my way home from breakfast with the guys." 

"Damn, friendship goals," Bucky says, grinning as wide as he can. His heart constricts painfully in his chest and he rubs his hand over it just to make sure he hasn't started he hasn't actually started bleeding out yet. "I don't really need to be anywhere now. Just ran some errands and thought I'd take a walk and see the neighbourhood." 

They make a turn and the car heads past shops to the other, poorer side of town that Bucky has never really been to. It isn't that he or Steve have particularly wealthy families (the army compensation for Steve's father's death in service got them a reasonable house on the right side of town, at least), it's just that this side of the neighbourhood is notorious for housing the poor and the criminals. 

The houses are dilapidated and older as they drive inwards, and graffiti stains most of the walls. "Well, come along to my house for a while and get changed out of your wet clothes. I can drive you back home after." Erik isn't even paying much attention to the road anymore, muscle memory and familiarity guiding the hand on the steering wheel. "I hope you don't think too badly of me. It's a real shitty living environment, isn't it?" 

They have corresponded so much through texts that Bucky knows, of course. He knows Erik's family is dirt poor - his parents are Polish migrants and his mum works in the garment factory down South while his dad, in a metalworking factory in another state. He comes back only every few months. Erik's seen a lot of hardship and suffering, Bucky knows. Maybe that's why he bothers to stay good friends with the senior. 

Being around imperfect people feels easier than being the flea to a perfect best friend's golden fleece sometimes.

"I think it's pretty punk. And hella rad, for sure. There's so much fun things to do here without being arrested. My old friend Peter Parker used to live here, and he told us a lot about it." Bucky smiles at the memory of the little brown-haired punk from his elementary school class. The kid showed up with holes in his shoes and stained clothes the whole year, and he spent much of his entire life on his skateboard. Bucky hasn't seen him around since he returned. 

"Yeah? You know what, there's gonna be an underground fight night later, informal fight ring, no rules no weapons. And a hell lot of cheap booze. Rumlow, Rollins and me, we're all going. Quill is too, I think. You wanna join us?" 

Bucky stops feeling the cold, finally. The jagged scrape in his heart sobers down a little, and his smile is face-splitting and genuine. "Fuck yeah." 

 

 

Night

The bed may be the hardest he's ever slept in, and it smells so Erik - cigarettes, some kind of candle fragrance and budget cologne - nothing like Steve. Bucky crashes after showering and eating, somehow sleeping till late evening. 

"What's in European food that puts people in comas?" He whispers to the room, where he can feel Erik sitting on the bed beside him. He's playing Final Fantasy on his phone, Bucky can hear the sounds.

"I don't know, semen?" Erik jokes, and Bucky laughs and sits up, hair sticking around wildly. He feels dizzy with how long he's been asleep.

"Dang, I haven't slept so well in so long. Are you sure you didn't drug the food? You didn't plant a bomb in me did ya?" He's teasing, but Erik drops his phone on his lap and looks at him in wide-eyed horror and hurt.

"God no, Bucky. I went out and played basketball for a while after it stopped raining, that's all." He's biting back some other words, and Bucky doesn't push. 

"I know, I'm kidding." He scoots over and nestles his head on Erik's shoulder, picks up Erik's phone and continues where Erik stopped. He knows he probably shouldn't string Erik along like this - Bucky knows what the guy wants and how he feels about him, but he feels so empty and desperate for someone, anyone's warmth right now. 

Erik hums happily beside him and it's all good, it's all okay for a moment. 

 

2 hours later they're walking down a flight of old, deteriorating stairs that reeks of stale beer and piss, to some basement of what used to be a sports and community centre. Bucky can hear the faint, distant sounds of shouts and a mass of voices getting louder, and finally Erik pushes the door open and the acrid smell of sweat and beer hits him like a truck. 

The underground ring is sweltering, with no ventilation, and it's almost depressing how the people on this side of town get their thrills in life. Erik was right about the alchol - cans and bottles are stacked up in a small mountain at the centre of the room, and there's an enormous tub of ice at the side and towers of plastic cups. It's every bit a poor man party, and the strained, distorted music pulses out from rusty old speakers. 

The fight ring itself is a pity case, the ropes loose and the floor stained with patches and streaks of brown, once upon crimson red, no doubt. Bucky's heart leaps a bit when he sees Brock Rumlow, all 5'8 of him, topless and sweaty, getting into the ring. A much huger guy who looks a few years older climbs in after Brock, and yes, Bucky can smell the fight in the air. 

Erik's eyes have this light in them too, and Bucky thinks it's mirrored in his own. They push their ways to the front after grabbing a few bottles. "Hey Rumlow, bash it in!" Erik yells when they're appproaching the front, and Brock looks down and smiles. He sees Bucky, and his eyes soften noticeably, and it makes Bucky's stomach drop out under him. He swallows - and watches in horror as Brock gets a fist in the jaw. 

The crowd cheers as the fight kicks off. It's brutal and raw in a way Bucky has never seen Brock fight, and although he's known how good Brock is, he finally, finally understands why guys like Brock can smoke pot and actually do fucking  _homework_ in the gym while other guys train their hearts out at punching bags, at building core strength. Brock fights in a way that reminds him of boys like Pietro in Russia, whose bodies seem to have a mind of their own. 

His opponent may be huge and burly but Brock is  _fast._ His face is red, tell-tale signs of being slightly drunk, but he's full of manic energy, dodging punches almost as soon as they are thrown. He hasn't thrown any of his own yet - "He's tiring the guy out, that's what he does when he knows he's outsized," Erik shouts in Bucky's ear above all the excited, bloodthirsty shouts.

Bucky drinks half the bottle in a gulp and holds his breath when he thinks he might puke, for a split second. Gin, he realises in disgust, looking at the label. He glances around the room, newly conscious. There are girls in here too, and many sport tattoos and are surrounded by entire groups of guys. The place is a vice hole, he thinks, and hell if he doesn't feel like he fits in. 

Suddenly, it feels okay to admit how unbearable it has been, going to high school and being a normal guy who makes friends and flirts and gets teachers vexed but secretly charmed. He feels like Russia has changed his DNA, and its dark shadow has followed him here, to this pulsing, sweating, dripping basement filled with smoky lungs and inked skin and bleeding fists. 

He doesn't really mind. 

He tips back the bottle and takes more swigs, relishing in the familiar buzz, and watches as Brock backhands his giant opponent and finally shows him a taste of his true abilities. The fight gets faster and bloodier after that, Brock delivers hits but gets chipped a few times too, but he still wins. 

He's bloody and sweaty when he jumps down and joins Erik and Bucky. They drink, Bucky loses track of how much he has drank. He ends up in the toilet, kissing Brock on his split, bleeding lip at some point. Everything is a haze, but by the time he's back in the room, Quill has appeared and he's pushed onstage by excited hands. 

The fight sobers him up like nothing else in the world can. Drunk and dazed as he is, Bucky's punches pack a hell lot of a weight and his unfortunate opponent, Shaw or something, gets a tooth knocked out within the first 5 minutes. Normally, he would drag out a fight, but Bucky feels tired despite all the adrenaline in his veins and he misses Natasha suddenly. He can't see his friends in the crowd, and he gets hit in the nose so hard he smells blood. 

The kick to Shaw's knees has him down, and the rowdy response only spurs Bucky on to kick the guy's back so hard he's flat on his stomach. He spits on the ground beside the gasping teenager and gets the hell out of the spotlight. 

"Man, fuck that. Forgot to tell ya not to go too hard on him. Shaw's got a lot of influence 'round here," Quill looks worried, impressed and guilty all at the same time. "I think we should beat it early, 'cos the last guy who knocked him out flat couldn't even walk out." 

"Huh. Shaw's signature position is flat on his back, is it?" Bucky wipes his bleeding nose on his sleeve. "Lemme just get one more drink." He breaks away from his group. People look at him as he pass, but being a new face stopped getting to him a long time ago.

From the short experience of being in this boisterous, shady underground fight ring, he thinks he doesn't mind being a regular. Since Steve won't have time for him anymore, anyway. Steve, steve, steve, a tinny voice in Bucky's mind pleads with no one in particular as he scans the stash of alcohol for vodka. Bucky realises he's more than a little drunk when the words on the labels bleed into weird barcodes and he's squinting to try and read them. 

Steve is the last thought in his mind when a bottle comes crashing down on his head out of nowhere and he hears the way the entire room lapses into a shocked silence in one breath, even before he hears the sound of glass shattering on his skull. It feels like all the wires in his system have been disconnected suddenly, and the pain is halted somewhere, frantic, searching for an outlet.

The silence is deafening, and the blond chick in white throws the end of the broken bottle at Bucky's feet. 

"Fuck you. That's for Shaw. Stay the fuck away from this place from now on." Her voice seems to come from far away, through several passages, the words looping weirdly. Bucky can't move, can't see suddenly, and white noise starts to bleed into his head.

The place breaks out in noise and he feels hands grabbing him just as he collapses ungracefully like a chopped flower.

 

 

The ninth to seventeenth days: 

There isn't a concept of time, or memory. Whatever dreams he has are forgotten the instant he wakes up, and he wakes up for barely a few seconds each time.

Bucky sees Steve only once, when he comes to. The pain in his head is frighteningly sharp and his stomach feels hollow, and Steve is sitting by his bed with his head in his hands. Bucky wants to reach out, but when he tries to move his hand the pain explodes everywhere and he's thrown back into the darkness.

When he thinks back to his comatose days a long time after, he doesn't remember seeing anyone else. He remembers hands, though, not Steve's, because he would recognise those, for sure. He thinks there are more than one pair of hands holding his. And one random memory stands out strikingly clear: Waking up in the darkness, with just the beep of the monitor and freaking Arnim Zola, Pierce's butler, sitting there in the dark reading a thick book.

 

When he comes to after who knows how long later, Natasha and Clint are at his bedside. Nat's talking softly on the phone and Clint is sleeping in his chair, drool running down a side of his mouth and an opened bag of potato chips on his lap. Bucky squints at the window and sees sunlight.

His throat feels deathly dry. "Nat?" he rasps, unable to even cringe at the horrible taste in his mouth or the sandpaper-scraping sensation in his throat.

Nat's eyes widen, and even from here he can see how beautifully her eyeliner is drawn on. Nat is always, always put together, no matter what shit circumstances she's in, he thinks. She mutters something into the phone and cuts the call, dropping it on the bed and scooting her chair closer to him.

"Oh, thank goodness. Damn you, Barnes, you worried the hell out of me!" She doesn't even bother to try and look angry with him for being so stupid as to get knocked out by a bottle. She scoops his hands up in hers, perfectly manicured fingernails tracing patterns on the back of his palms. "God, Bucky. Oh god. You were out for so long, and..." Nat saves both of them the pain of witnessing her tears, and goes for "School was hell without you" instead.

Bucky tries to smile, pulls a hand free so that he can touch her face. 

"I'm not... God," Bucky whispers, throat screaming in protest. "How's everything?" The words barely make it, but Nat seems to hear anyway. 

"Terrible. Listen, I shouldn't be telling you this but you know I'll never keep anything from you, and Steve probably won't tell you until like, next year. It's horrible news though, I should warn you first." The relief in her eyes upon seeing Bucky awake is clouded by a heavy grief and pity, and Bucky's heart shrinks on itself alarmingly fast.

She knows he's ready for the news once he's steadied a few breaths. "Steve's mum died the night you got injured, Bucky. I've never seen him so torn up in my life. If only you were there... None of us knew what to say. It's like, the whole light in his life was switched off." Tears fill up her eyes this time, and she wipes them away quickly, presses her face into Bucky's hand instead.

And Bucky, he can't breathe. He's never hated himself more than he ever did, right now. While he was out having fun and getting cheap thrills... the person he loved most in the world lost one of his dearest people. And all Bucky could ever think of was himself.

His heart breaks completely, for Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: into steve's head we go


End file.
